The Next Mrs. Blackthorne (Bitter Creek Book 6)

by Joan Johnston

  She squinted at the afternoon sun, then pulled off the battered felt cowboy hat North had lent her and dabbed delicately at the sweat on her forehead with the already dirty cuff of her yoked western shirt. Her brand-new boots had been stepped on by cows and were coated with a fine layer of dust. Her designer jeans were dotted with cow slobber.

  She needed a long, cool bath. The sooner, the better.

  “Put your hat back on. Your nose is pink.”

  She jerked at the sound of North’s voice and nearly dropped the vaccinating gun. She looked up with narrowed eyes into the stony face of her nemesis. “It’s my nose.”

  “Just don’t come crying to me later.”

  Before they’d left the house, she’d asked North for sunscreen. Instead, he’d tossed her the brown felt hat, with its grimy sweat stains along the band. Not only was it dirty, it didn’t match her outfit.

  “You expect me to wear this?” she’d asked.

  “Your choice. But we’re going to be outside most of the day.”

  Without sunblock, her pale complexion would roast in the hot Texas sun. “I’ll have to take my hair down,” she’d protested.

  He’d shrugged and said, “Day’s wasting.” A moment later she was staring at his back, as the screen door slammed behind him.

  She’d yanked the pins from her hair and tossed them onto the kitchen table where she could find them later, then hurried after him.

  Hungry as she’d become during the endless morning, she’d never said a word about food. But her stomach was growling, it was so empty. “When do we eat?” she asked, cringing as she eased the sweat-wet hat back on, tugging it down low on her forehead, the way North wore his.

  “You quitting already?” North said.

  “I’m not quitting,” she said. “I’m just hungry.”

  “We’ll stop when the job’s done.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Another half hour.”

  By then it would be one o’clock. They’d trailered horses here, which was another half-hour drive. By the time they got back to the house, she’d be famished.

  At that moment her stomach made a loud, undignified cry for sustenance.

  “Chuck wagon’s on the far side of the corral. If you can’t wait, ask Cookie to give you something now.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. Her arm might fall off from holding the vaccinating gun, and she might never walk again after she got out of these high-heeled boots, but as far as North Grayhawk was concerned, she was just dandy. Especially if all she had to do to find food was make it to the other side of the corral.

  “What I really need is a bath,” she said, as she laid down the vaccinating gun, pulled off the too-large, sweaty buckskin gloves North had also lent her and looked at her blistered hands.

  “There’s a pond not far from here. We can take a swim when we’re done.”

  “I prefer a bath. Alone.”

  “The swim you can have after lunch. The bath would have to wait until dark.”

  She wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t wait until dark. She needed to rinse off this sweat and dust, and the offer of cool water sounded too inviting to resist. There was only one problem.

  “What am I supposed to wear for a bathing suit?”

  He grinned and said, “Who needs a suit?”

  “Where are you going to be while I’m taking this swim?”

  “It’s a big pond.”

  At that moment, one of North’s cowhands called to him. He turned away, as though the matter were settled, and headed back to the branding fire.

  It took another forty-five minutes to finish the job, and for the last fifteen, Jocelyn was functioning on sheer grit. She handed the vaccinating gun over to one of the cowhands when the triangle at the chuck wagon clanged, signaling everyone to come and eat.

  She was surprised at how courteous the cowboys were, each one tipping his hat to her and saying “Ma’am” as though she were the Queen of Sheba. All except North, who handed her a tin plate and said, “Food’s being served for the next fifteen minutes.”

  She realized it was a warning, and she hastened to the dutch oven simmering over the fire, where Cookie had created a hearty beef stew and added dumplings on top. She found a seat on one of the logs that had been situated around the fire, set her plate in her lap and concentrated on the meal until it was gone. Nothing Jocelyn had ever eaten had tasted so good.

  When the late lunch was over, she stood by as North sent his cowhands off to do other chores around the ranch. She waited, her shoulders aching, to see what he expected from her next.

  “You ready for that swim?” he said.

  “I told you, I don’t have a suit.”

  He shrugged. “Your choice. There’s some barbed wire fence needs to be—”

  “I’ll go for the swim,” she interrupted. She wouldn’t put it past North to force her to spend the afternoon manhandling barbed wire.

  “Fine. Can you ride?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She’d starting riding almost as soon as she could walk.

  “Then we’ll ride to the pond,” he said.

  Jocelyn would have ridden all the way to Connecticut if that’s what it took to remove the smug look from North Grayhawk’s face. “No problem,” she replied.

  Except she hadn’t been on a horse since she was fourteen and had broken her leg in a fall while jumping a high stone wall. Her father had taken the family to Paris before she was well again, and the opportunity hadn’t arisen for more than a year for her to get back on a horse. When the opportunity had come, for some reason she couldn’t explain, she hadn’t taken advantage of it. Then her mother had died, and spending all her free time on the back of a horse had no longer been an option.

  As she followed North to where two saddled horses were tethered, she realized her heart was pounding and her palms were damp. She couldn’t possibly be afraid. That was ridiculous. She’d spent most of her youth on a horse.

  North gestured to a fat white gelding and said, “Whitey’s friendly. Mount up and I’ll check the stirrups.”

  Whitey was a far cry from the sleek thoroughbred hunters she’d ridden as a child. Even so, she shivered as she contemplated getting back on a horse, even one as tame as this. “Whitey looks like he should have retired a few years ago,” she muttered.

  “You say something?” North asked.

  She patted the docile gelding. “Whitey and I will get along just fine.” Jocelyn grimaced at the western saddle, with its horn in front and high cantle in back. It was far more bulky than the English saddles on which she’d ridden in her youth.

  “Problem?” North said.

  “No problem,” she said, as she placed her foot in the stirrup and mounted. Even if there was, she would never admit it to him.

  Her heartbeat immediately ratcheted up a notch. I’m not afraid, she told herself. Nevertheless, her hands began to tremble. She took a deep breath and blew it out, trying to expel the anxiety she felt.

  She jerked when North removed her left foot from the stirrup and stared down at him. “What are you doing?”

  “Your stirrups are too short,” he said.

  By the time he’d lengthened both stirrups, Jocelyn was feeling decidedly uneasy. She’d seen enough western movies to know that cowboys didn’t post—that is, rise in the stirrups and sit in the saddle in rhythm with a trotting horse—the way English riders did. The stirrups were now too long to do that, anyway. She felt awkward and out-of-place, which was unusual for a diplomat’s daughter like herself.

  “You okay?” North asked.

  She stared at the hand he’d placed on her thigh and tensed as her flesh warmed beneath his touch. She was sure the gesture was intended to comfort her, but it was only making things worse. “I’m fine,” she said, pulling her knee away.

  A moment later he was on his horse, a big black stallion, and kicked him into a canter. She watched in admiration as the man and the horse moved in one fluid motion, before she kicked Whitey i
n the ribs and said, “Let’s go.”

  To her surprise, the placid animal went from standing still to a lope in a matter of seconds. Instead of feeling joy at the sensation of the wind in her hair once again, she felt scared. She grabbed the horn and tugged on the reins to slow her horse down. The animal was so responsive, he sat back on his haunches, bringing him to a sudden stop. She slid up onto Whitey’s neck, grabbing hold with both hands to keep from going over his head.

  It reminded her vividly of her long-ago accident, when her horse had refused a fence, and she’d taken such a terrible fall. She was breathing heavily and trembling horribly and wanted off this horse. Now. But she couldn’t move. She was clinging to Whitey’s neck for dear life and frozen with fear.

  She heard hooves thundering back in her direction and looked up to see North pull his horse to a stop and frown at her.

  “I thought you said you could ride.”

  “I can. I…”

  Before she could say another word, a powerful arm circled her waist, and North lifted her off Whitey and held her tight against his side. His voice was right in her ear as he said, “Do you think you could swing your leg over my horse’s back and sit behind me?”

  Jocelyn would have done anything that got her left breast out of contact with North’s chest. She took a deep breath to gather herself and said, “Sure.”

  North wrapped the reins around the horn and used both hands to help her make the transition. She whimpered when the stallion sidestepped, but he gripped her tighter and said, “I’ve got you.”

  After a little maneuvering, Jocelyn found herself sitting comfortably on the stallion’s back behind North. Once she was in place, he pulled her hands around his waist and said, “Hang on.”

  She was afraid he’d kick his horse into a lope, so she grabbed hold of his waist. But her fears were groundless, because he gathered the reins and his mount stepped out in an easy walk. She couldn’t let go even then, because it would have been obvious that she was afraid of him.

  Jocelyn cringed as he whistled sharply, calling to one of his cowhands, “Take Whitey. We won’t be needing him.”

  She waited for North to chastise or criticize her, but he remained silent. Jocelyn was grateful for the slow tempo of the ride, but she had too much time to be aware of the play of muscle and sinew under her hands and the not unpleasant hardworking-man smell of North’s shirt.

  “We’re here,” he announced at last, halting his stallion. “You ready to get down?”

  She was more than ready, but still embarrassed by the whole incident with Whitey. “Yes,” she mumbled to his back.

  She watched from the corner of her eye as he wrapped the reins around the saddle horn, lifted one leg over the saddle, and slid to the ground. Then he turned and grabbed her waist with both hands and pulled her off the horse, letting her slide down his body.

  She backed up so quickly she stumbled, and he reached out and steadied her. Jocelyn wished she’d never agreed to a stupid swim. As she stood there, embarrassed by her gaucheness, he turned away and ground-tied his horse, which was already lipping the tall, green grass.

  Jocelyn turned her back on him and found herself suddenly entranced by the idyllic setting. Tall cotton-woods surrounded the pond and the branch of an enormous live oak extended out over the water with a rope attached to it that was obviously used as a swing from which to drop into the water.

  “This is beautiful,” she said.

  “I’ve always thought so,” he replied.

  The water was surprisingly clear, and Jocelyn could see small fish swimming in it. Large flat rocks edged the pond, making a convenient place to lie in the sun, and a turtle was sunning itself on the bank.

  When she turned to face North, she realized he’d already pulled his boots off and was working on his belt buckle. She quickly turned her back and heard the continuing sound of clothing being removed. She struggled to keep her voice calm as she asked, “Are you really going to swim in the nude?”

  “Last one in’s a rotten egg,” he said.

  She could hear the laughter in North’s voice, and then a loud splash. When she turned, she saw his feet disappearing into the water. She waited a long time for him to reappear, long enough to become anxious.

  When he did come up, he erupted from the water grinning, and swiped his hair back from his raw-boned face. “You gonna stand there all day?”

  The water looked wonderfully inviting. If only she had something to wear! Then she realized that just because North had removed every stitch of clothing didn’t mean she had to do the same. She took a deep breath and began to unsnap the fancy western shirt. “You could turn around,” she said.

  “I could. But I’m not going to,” he replied, paddling to keep himself in place in the water.

  She stopped, the shirt unsnapped, but not pulled from her jeans. “Why not?”

  “You figure it out.”

  He wanted to see what he’d paid for, she realized. Well, he was going to be disappointed. Jocelyn pulled the shirt from her jeans, unsnapped the cuffs, and pulled the shirt off, folding it neatly and laying it on a nearby flat, hip-high rock.

  Then she sat on the rock and pulled off her boots and socks. She stood with her back to the pond while she unbuckled her belt and unzipped her jeans and shimmied out of them, picking them up and folding them equally neatly and setting them on the rock. She looked ruefully at the lacy white bra and white silk bikini panties she was wearing—she didn’t own anything less provocative—and strode into the water.

  “As you can see,” she said, “I’m not skinny-dipping with you. All the important parts are completely—This is ice cold!” she protested, stopping knee-deep in the pond.

  “It’s spring-fed,” he said. “It’ll feel good once you’re in.”

  Jocelyn held her breath and took the plunge. She burst out of the water laughing and shivering. “It feels amazing. I’m—” She stopped abruptly when North appeared right in front of her, grinned, and splashed water in her face.

  Her mouth was open in shock, and she swallowed a good deal of it before she recovered enough to put her hands on his shoulders and kick herself high enough out of the water to get the leverage to shove him under. She felt his hands on her bare waist as he went down and then felt herself coming up out of the water as though she were being propelled by a porpoise. She went sailing high in the air and landed in the water with a gigantic splash.

  She had the forethought to close her mouth this time, but she opened her eyes and went searching underwater for North, to pay him back. She caught sight of his naked butt and realized the water was far too clear for modesty. But she owed him, and she pinched the inviting portion of his anatomy before she sped away.

  She came up in time to hear him yelp and grab his behind. “Serves you right,” she said, laughing.

  And then he came after her.

  She shrieked with laughter, something she hadn’t done since she was seven, and tried to race away, but he caught her ankle and walked his hands up her leg until he had her by the waist and could turn her into his arms. She was laughing and shoving at his chest, still trying to get away, when he caught a handful of her wet hair. She stilled immediately, caught by the look of desire in his eyes.

  She had known—feared—this moment was coming since North had invited her to come swimming with him. She was aware of the heat of his body tangled with hers. Her underwear was no protection at all. She could feel his heart pounding under her hand, feel his breath against her cheek, and watched as his eyes turned warm again, like Caribbean waters.

  She waited for the kiss she knew was coming. Waited. And wanted.

  He swam them closer to the edge of the pond until he could stand. Her feet were still off the ground, so she had to depend on him to keep her afloat.

  She watched his eyes as he lowered his mouth toward hers and saw the demand for surrender. And the promise of pleasure beyond bearing. She would have fought the first, but she wanted the second. Had wished for
it all her life. Had dreamed of it, but never felt it.

  His lips were warm and soft, and she opened her mouth as his tongue came searching. She slid her arms around his neck and held on for dear life as he pulled her close, until her breasts were crushed against the muscular wall of his chest.

  The sensations were marvelous. Amazing. Overwhelming.

  She wasn’t aware he’d even touched the back clasp of her bra before he separated them and pulled her bra off and threw it onto the bank. She didn’t have a moment to protest before his mouth was back on hers, and her breasts were nestled against the coarse hairs on his chest. She rubbed herself against him, wanting the feelings that came with the friction of her smooth female skin against his hairy male body.

  And heard him groan.

  She stared at him in wonder, suddenly aware of a female power that had never dawned on her before. She could bring this powerful man to his knees with…a touch? She grasped a handful of his hair and pulled hard enough that he broke the kiss and stared into her eyes.

  His look was feral. And avid beyond imagining. He wanted her. Desperately. That much was clear.

  She put a hand against his cheek and felt the rough dark beard that had already grown since morning. She kissed his eyelids and his cheeks. Kissed his throat and felt the pulse beating frantically there. Nipped at the scar on his shoulder and felt his body tense. She looked into his eyes again and saw the warm blue had turned darker. Like storm clouds. Compelling in a way she found very hard to resist.

  She felt her body twist inside. Felt her breasts fill and become achy. Felt her throat swell with emotion. Felt her heart beat a fast tattoo of fright and desire.

  Not a word had been spoken between them, but she knew what he wanted. All that remained was for her to decide whether she was willing. He’d given her a seven-day respite. But Jocelyn suddenly realized it would be unbearable to wait so long, knowing she must inevitably give herself to him. She let her eyes and hands speak for her.

  And North got the message.

  Jocelyn felt the fragile strip of cloth at the edge of her silk panties give way under his hand, and felt them slide away, replaced by his callused fingertips against her bare bottom. Her breath rasped against his cheek as he turned his face and captured her mouth with his.